


God Give Me Strength

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter must endure the presence of an unexpected houseguest, it becomes a question of who will survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Give Me Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of lighthearted fun at the beginning of Season 1.
> 
> Many thanks to Treon for the beta. She is the guardian who protects against typos and dangling participles.

     Neal and Peter had only been working together for about four months. Their unexplored liaison was just in its infancy. Each was still striving to learn the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the other—at least what they didn’t already know after three years of the marathon chase. Peter’s expectations were grounded in reality, and he lived on tenterhooks wondering exactly when, not if, he would get a distress call from the Marshals. He was savvy enough to know that the anklet was simply a token deterrent. Neal would disappear in a puff of smoke when it reached the top of his to-do list.

     Trust was a really big issue; at least it was for Peter. He wasn’t sure where it ranked on Neal’s hierarchy of faith. The nervous FBI agent was taking this venture one day at a time. He supposed that it was a bit like raising a kid. You could read all the child-rearing books that were on the market, but, when the chips were down, you just had to find your own bumbling way in the trenches and hope for the best.

     When Peter arrived at the White Collar office one Tuesday morning, he heaved a silent sigh of relief when he saw Neal sitting at a neighboring agent’s desk making small talk. He hoped the evil-eyed glare that he directed at his CI made an impression that said, “ _Get to work_ ,” but he seriously doubted it would even dent Caffrey’s charming demeanor. He continued on his way up the stairs to his office, only to be waylaid by Hughes, who herded him into the conference room and shut the door.

     Peter turned around and realized that they were not alone. Joseph Ruiz, the pint-sized irritating agent from Organized Crime, was already seated at the table. Peter and Ruiz had a history, and it wasn’t pretty.

     Peter quirked an eyebrow and asked sarcastically, “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Ruiz?” Unfortunately, Peter already had a pretty good idea regarding the visit.

     The other agent answered just as maliciously. “Trust me, Burke, gracing the halls of you artsy-fartsy geeks was not high on my agenda of things that I really wanted to do today!”

     “Gentlemen!” Hughes strove to retain a bit of decorum in the testosterone-filled room. “Can we at least be professionally civil and get down to business?”

     The “business” that Ruiz got down to was distressing, to say the least. Neal had gone undercover recently during a pyramid scheme sting. He had discovered evidence that the Sabatino crime family was using the venue as a means of laundering drug money. He had gotten damning evidence on one of the capos high up in the organization, and, in a sense of fraternal cooperation, that information had been given to Organized Crime. They had made their high-profile arrest, and the trial was about to take place with Neal as the prosecutor’s star witness. However, just last night, undercover operatives had heard disturbing rumblings that a hit had been taken out on White Collar’s newest acquisition.

     “As much as it pains me to say it,” Ruiz groused, “now we have to protect that little twerp who never should have left Sing Sing. I drew the short straw, so I’m here to escort him to one of our safe houses until he can testify.”

     “No way!” Peter barked. “We take care of our own here, so we’ll arrange his accommodations until he’s needed at the trial.”

     “It’s our case, and our responsibility,” Ruiz argued. Then the spiteful little man proceeded to add insult to injury. “Besides, this is a bit more dangerous for your agents than swanning around art galleries, sipping their cappuccinos, while looking for bad guys hiding in closets.”

     Peter look murderous, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

     “Gentlemen!” roared Hughes again as he waded into the fray once more. “Zip up your flies!”

     Turning to his fuming agent, the ASAC grimaced and braced himself for what was surely to come. “Peter, it’s Organized Crime’s case, and they are responsible for all the ramifications that it entails. Ruiz assures me that the safe house is completely off the radar, and that they have a team of very competent agents who will sit on Caffrey the whole time.”

     Ruiz suddenly looked haughty and arrogant, having had “Daddy” take his side in the argument. Then he slyly tried to slip in the next comment, as if it was an inconsequential aside.

     “There has been some occasional chatter—not verified, you understand—that the Marshals Service might have been compromised by the Mob. You know how it is—there’s always one bad apple that you have to ferret out—and we’re working on that. So, as a precaution, you’ll need to remove Caffrey’s anklet for now.”

     If Peter had been near a wall, he would have proceeded to bang his head against it until blessed oblivion claimed him. No such luck! He looked to Hughes for support, but his boss just scowled and looked away from Peter’s beseeching stare. Reluctantly, with great trepidation, Peter removed the key to Neal’s anklet from his ring and handed it over. Snatching it up, Ruiz smugly flounced out the door.

     Peter watched as the obnoxious Elliott Ness wannabe sashayed up to Neal. His posture was all swagger and machismo as he spoke a few terse words. Then he had the young man put his foot up on the desk, and the anklet was removed with little fanfare. Neal glanced up wide-eyed at Peter, then gave an exaggerated “this wasn’t my idea, but what can you do” shrug, and accompanied Ruiz out to the elevator. Peter had trouble tearing his eyes away from the forlorn tracker that looked so out of place atop Neal’s desk rather than under it attached to his leg.

     “Reese….,” Peter began, but Hughes was already holding up his hands forestalling any whining.

     “I know, Peter, I know! Just make sure to bring your running shoes tomorrow since the chase will be on to catch Caffrey again. At least the onus of that little hiccup will be on Ruiz and his team, not ours. You caught him twice; you can do it again.”

     The workday wasn’t even over before the call came in to Hughes. Ruiz, the little weasel, didn’t have the guts to call himself. His superior was the one to bear the bad tidings—Neal was in the wind! Peter simply sighed, told Jones and Diana to issue the requisite alerts and to institute roadblocks on exits out of the city. Peter was in no mood to deal with this fiasco now. It was after 6 PM and he was going home to the sanity of his own house and his understanding wife. Tomorrow was another day to play tag with Neal.

**********

     Opening his front door, the first thing that assailed Peter was the wonderfully mouthwatering aroma coming from somewhere within the small house. The second thing that he noticed was a suitcase and a duffle bag at the foot of the stairs. He followed the sound of laughter to the kitchen where he found El and Neal seated at the island. His wayward CI, now an escaped felon on the lam, was entertaining his colluding wife with magic card tricks. Peter caught El mid-giggle, and tried to look stern. Actually, he was relieved and thankful, but Neal didn’t need to know that!

     “Hi Hon! Neal made coq au vin. Doesn’t it smell divine? We were just waiting for you to get home for dinner.”

     “Hi, Peter!” Neal gave his handler a little finger wave and a toothy grin.

     Peter took a deep breath. His antacid-filled stomach had just begun to settle down, and now he had to deal with this…...this spectacle that would set it off again!

     “Neal why are you here?” The frustrated man demanded to know. “Why couldn’t you, just for once, stay where you were put?”

     “Peter,” Neal began calmly in the face of Peter’s displeasure, “I didn’t feel safe with those inept clowns from Organized Crime. It was like being in a ‘Three Stooges’ movie. I already feel much safer here. Besides, this would be the very last place that anyone, friend or foe, would look for me. I am as secure as Fort Knox…....no, scratch that,” he said after giving that statement some consideration. “I am as secure as I could possibly be under the circumstances,” he amended.

     Peter tried hard to keep his voice even. “I know that you think that everything is always about you, Neal, but have you even given one iota of thought to the danger that you are placing my wife in?”

     “We’ve got that covered,” El chirped happily. “I’ve already spoken to my sister, and I am going to be her houseguest until after Neal testifies. I’m already packed and ready to go. I even went grocery shopping for you guys, and the pantry and fridge are stocked. I’ll call a cab after dinner and be on my way to the train station.”

     “And a friend of mine dropped off my stuff a while ago, so I am set for the duration,” Neal added. “You can go about your daily routine as if all is right with the world—well, maybe not _everything_. You should at least pantomime chasing me. It will make you look proactive, and it might even make you feel better about this situation. Meanwhile, I’ll be right here, snug as a bug in a rug. I’ll even cook for you, Peter. El tells me that dinner on your own usually consists of salami and eggs,” Neal shuddered. “So, I am your salvation. Just my humble thanks for your gracious hospitality!”

     Dinner was actually very good, and it wasn’t long before Peter was helping his wife into a taxi.

     “Now, Peter,” she pleaded, “be nice to Neal. He means well, and he thinks the world of you. You should feel pleased that he came to you when he could have just as easily run away.”

     Peter kissed his wife gently, “Yeah, I get a warm and fuzzy feeling when I’m around him. Lucky me!”

     “Hon,” El chided, “sarcasm is definitely not your strong suit. Now call me every night to let me know how you guys are getting along. Love you!” And with that, she was gone.

     A now weary Peter trudged back into the house and sank down on the couch. Neal just looked at him expectantly with that annoying self-satisfied smile on his face. Yeah, Caffrey always managed to finagle things so that he got exactly what he wanted.

     “So, what’s on tap for tonight?” the irritating little pest wanted to know. Peter just ignored the hopeful expression aimed at him and flipped on the television until he had located a Yankees game.

     “Seriously, Peter?” The con man said in mock despair.

     “Seriously,” Peter answered. “My house, my television, my remote! So just deal with it, Slick!”

     When the deep sighing continued through three outs, Peter couldn’t contain his aggravation any longer.

     “Look, I know that you are bored. You have made that _abundantly_ clear. Try to entertain yourself for once. There’s blank computer paper over on the desk. Why don’t you draw something?”

     Neal looked disbelieving and insulted, all with the arching of one eyebrow.

     “What…...you don’t have a coloring book and crayons for me? What kind of host are you? Maybe tomorrow, on your way home from the office, you can stop at a craft store and buy me one of those paint-by-number kits. That would be so exciting and challenging. It would keep me busy. You know what they say, ‘ _Idle hands are the devil’s workshop_.’”

     Peter looked at this enigma and asked, “Who actually says that, Neal?”

     He had caught Neal off-guard for once. “Oh, you know, I may have heard it from a nun somewhere in the distant past.”

     Peter pondered this new little tidbit regarding Neal Caffrey. Was he a product of a parochial school? If that were so, then Peter would venture a guess that, somewhere out there, a saintly order of poor, dedicated sisters had eventually lost their faith after trying to mentor and shape a wild child during his formative years. It sure explained the ties, but it was just an infinitesimally small piece to fill in the abyss of Caffrey’s past.

     After three innings, Peter gave up trying to relax and unwind. He favored Neal with a condescending look and a barked, “Sit! Stay!” He then went upstairs to change into pajamas and returned shortly with a blanket and pillow that he tossed into Neal’s lap.

     The young con man look nonplused. “Do you really expect me to sleep here on this sofa? Peter, I’d be a sitting duck if one of those mob guys broke into your house. I have no way to defend myself and I’d be dead meat. You’re the one with the gun. You should be the first line of defense to protect me.”

     “Neal,” Peter began patiently, “there’s only one bed in this house and that’s mine. Cowboy up, Buddy. Besides, I’m too tall to fit on that sofa.”

     “We’re the same height, Peter!” Neal argued.

     At the agent’s skeptical look, Neal added, “Well, maybe you’re just an inch or so taller. But still, Peter, aren’t you the least little bit concerned about my continued good health? That federal prosecutor would be really pissed at you if you let something happen to me and I couldn’t testify.”

     The very tired and disgruntled older man finally capitulated just to get Neal to shut up. “Fine, go!”

     With a satisfied grin, Neal retrieved his duffle bag and disappeared up the stairs. Peter lay down gingerly and tried to find a comfortable position that entailed jackknifing his legs so that his knees were close to his chin. Is this how babies felt in utero for nine months? The fetal position was not all it was cracked up to be! How had this become his life, he wondered? Corralling Neal Caffrey was like having a category 4 hurricane blow through your world.

     It was definitely not a restful night, and Peter didn’t even have the ability to toss and turn on the narrow “bed.” He awoke the next morning to an aching back and the aroma of coffee. Neal was already up and dressed and slicing bagels to put in the toaster oven. Peter ignored his cheery “Good Morning” and made his way up to his bedroom. What he encountered stopped him in his tracks.

     The room was neat, the bed made, and the curtains pulled back. The only things out of place were two of Peter’s suits, four of his shirts, and a half-dozen of his ties, including his “lucky” one, all piled onto the room’s only chair. When Peter cautiously opened his side of the closet, the tableau before him made his blood boil. His remaining suits were now encased in plastic, his shirts were all facing the same direction and segregated by color, as were the ties on the door’s tie rack. His shoes were lined up in a precise row like soldiers in parade rest formation, a shoetree in each one. Even his cross trainers were sporting stretchers.

     “Neal!!!” Peter roared at the top of his lungs.

     The guilty party arrived a minute later. “You bellowed, Sire?”

     Peter took a deep breath to try to calm down before answering. “What is…...this?” he asked, suddenly at a loss for words as his wave took in the room in general.

     Neal gave him a patient look as he explained. “Well, when I went to store my duffel in your closet last night, just let me say, Peter, the only word that came to mind was ‘ _appalling_.’ I mean, like _totally, totally_ appalling,” he reiterated, sounding exactly like a teenage girl.

     “So I tidied up a bit and culled out some of the most offensive items.” Neal indicated the clothes on the chair. “I think that you should donate them to a homeless shelter. No legitimate consignment shop is going to want to touch those puppies, but, unfortunately, the destitute can’t be picky. After I testify and can go out in public again, we’ll go shopping, and I don’t mean at Men’s Warehouse.”

     “So now you’re Mr. GQ,” Peter sniped, as he pointed at Neal’s distressed jeans with the tears in the knees and the over-sized t-shirt with a black and white depiction of Socrates.

     Neal was unfazed. “I knew that I would be slumming during my little stay here with you. So, I dressed down and went for casual.”

     “Get out of my room, Neal, now!”

     When Peter later descended the steps, he was defiantly sporting one of the offending suits along with its complement of disgraced shirt and tie.

     “Peter,” Neal moaned, “you’re making my eyes water and my molars ache.”

     His handler’s only retort was a sharp “Stay out of my stuff!” as he slammed the front door shut behind him.

*********

     Once within the comforting, sane environs of the FBI building, Peter popped his head inside of Hughes’ office. “FYI, Reese, I have a surprise and uninvited guest staying at my home,” he told his boss in a defeated tone of voice.

     Hughes’ eyebrows rose comically. “He turned himself in to you?” he said in disbelief.

     “It’s more like he attached himself like a tick,” Peter said morosely.

     Hughes frowned for a second, and then deadpanned, “Well, just don’t strangle him when he plucks your last nerve. He’s a Bureau asset and it would generate a lot of paperwork.”

     As his top agent exited, Hughes was thoughtful. Peter seemed off somehow, not entirely pulled together today. Maybe it was just that atrocious tie, he mused.

     When Peter got settled in his office, Jones and Diana soon appeared.

     “Peter,” Jones began, “we’ve been turning over every rock, peering into every nook and cranny, and it looks like Caffrey got away clean as a whistle.”

     “Yeah, Boss, it’s infuriating,” Diana added. “Nobody should be able to disappear that fast without a whisper!”

     Peter just leveled a telling look at his agents. “Well, keep at it but don’t look too hard.”

     Diana was quick on the uptake. “You know where he is, don’t you Boss.”

     Peter grinned. “Let’s just say that I may have a pretty good idea. But, in the meantime, I think that we should let Ruiz and company keep chasing their tails for a bit longer. I have so little joy in my life these days.”

     Both agents smiled back at him in response. The main man was happy, and their jobs had just gotten a lot easier. It was bold Diana who turned back before exiting Peter’s office.

     “Boss, I know it’s not my place to make value judgments,” she started hesitantly, and Peter girded himself against her professional criticism regarding his less than legitimate actions concerning his CI.

     “But,” the nervous junior agent finally continued. “I feel that I must tell you that your shirt and that tie really clash. I’m just saying, you know, because I respect you and wouldn’t want anyone to snicker behind your back. Not that any of us would,” she hastily added.

     “Duly noted,” Peter said with a poker-face as he sighed deeply. Was the whole world comprised of the fashion police aligned in a secret conspiracy to make his life miserable? Everybody was a critic nowadays.

**********

     Of course, the hands of the clock made their way around the dial at an unnaturally rapid pace that day. At least, it seemed that way to Peter, who was suddenly reluctant to return to the train wreck that he now called home. There was no telling what Neal had gotten up to during the previous eight hours. Perversely, Peter buoyed up his flagging spirits with the thought that maybe Neal had reconsidered his decision not to flee, and had ultimately decided to disappear. In that case, the universe would have righted itself once again, and things would be “normal.” Peter could then take up their time-honored pursuit in an organized fashion. That was familiar territory; having Neal in his personal space was not!

     When Peter cautiously opened the door to his home, he found that Neal was definitely in for the long haul. He discovered his houseguest sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the living room. He was surrounded by a multitude of familiar objects, and he looked like a kid on Christmas morning surveying the loot that Santa had left. Peter recognized all the trinkets, and his heart sank.

     When his parents had downsized from the house where they had lived for over forty years, Peter’s mother had boxed up memorabilia from her son’s youth and given it to him. The one and only time that Peter had possession of that box was when he stored it in the dark and remote reaches of the basement. Until today, it had never seen the light of day. Now all the old baseball trophies, trading cards, stamps, photos, and books were spread out like used wares at a garage sale, and Neal was in his glory!

     “Hot damn, Peter, this stuff is pure gold!” he enthused, as he studied Peter’s senior class picture in the high school yearbook.

     “Normally I would lie, but this time I just can’t ‘cause I’ve got to say—you were a real dweeb in high school.” Holding the photo closer to his nose, he added, “Peter—you even had zits!”

     Peter snatched the yearbook out of Neal’s hands and furiously snapped it shut. Getting down to his CI’s level, he ground out menacingly, “Neal, I told you to stay out of my stuff!”

     Neal was unperturbed and proceeded to select an old photograph from a stack at his elbow. Peter looked at his four-year-old self togged out in a Halloween costume. He was wearing cowboy boots and spurs, little chaps with fringe, and a big white cowboy hat. He had a toy six-shooter in a holster on his hip and a bright shiny sheriff’s badge on his tiny chest.

     “This is just too precious,” the con man gushed delightedly. “Just so prophetic! I’ll bet you came out of the womb wanting to be a lawman.”

     “And you were probably stealing cookies as soon as you learned to crawl,” was Peter’s petty retort. Then he began grabbing things helter-skelter and throwing them into the box with a vengeance. He may have even been growling a bit while doing so.

     “A bit testy, are we?” Neal asked solicitously. “Probably low blood sugar. But never fear, dinner is ready. I made sole meuniere that I paired with hartecot verte and a delicate risotto.”

     Dinner was a quiet affair, even though Neal did his best to channel June Cleaver by continually asking, “So, how was your day?” All that was missing was the frilly apron and the pearls.

     “Sometimes, Peter, I think that you just ignore me, and that’s insensitive and hurtful,” Neal pouted. “You didn’t even comment on the meal that I worked so hard to make for you.”

     Peter leveled a narrow-eyed squint at his partner, “Neal, trust me when I say that I could never ignore you. You make that impossible.”

     Neal just continued to look pitiful, so Peter finally relented. “The food is …… fine.”

     “Just ‘fine’?” Neal asked softly.

     Peter tried to salvage what apparently he had broken. “Yeah, it’s just not as substantial as what I’m used to eating. I’m more of a meat and potatoes guy, ya know. Maybe you can make pot roast tomorrow.”

     Neal heaved a put-upon sigh. “I have been trying to educate your plebian palate as well as watch your cholesterol and triglycerides. But to please you, tomorrow I’ll pander to your carnivorous appetite and make boeuf bourguignon. I just hope that El has some bouquet garni in her spice cabinet. It’s hard to tell because all the little bottles are just in a jumble. If I have time while I’m here, I’m going to alphabetize the lot. But even if she doesn’t have that spice, it’s not a problem. I can make my own.”

     To Peter, Neal saying that he could make his own bouquet of something or other was right up there with “ _Breaking Bad_ ’s” Walter White saying that he could make his own special brand of crack. Closing his eyes, the FBI agent wisely decided that he just couldn’t face any more information right now.

     Later that evening, Peter stepped out on the back patio to touch base with his wife on the phone. His complaints about Neal’s intrusiveness fell on deaf ears. Peter tried a last-ditch effort to get his wife on his side.

     “He says that he’s going to reorganize _your_ spices— _your_ stuff in _your_ kitchen,” he taunted.

     It didn’t work. “Awww, he is so thoughtful! Please thank him for me. I am so happy that the two of you are sharing some bonding time.”

     Bonding time took on a whole new meaning that night. Peter tried again, without much success, to arrange his body comfortably on the tiny couch. After an excruciating cramp seized up muscles in his back, he had had enough of playing the martyr. He marched upstairs to his bedroom and flicked on the light. Neal was laying on his stomach on El’s side of the bed, burrowed deep under the covers. Peter could only make out the dark, unruly curls on the top of his head. Now that Peter had gotten his bearings, he turned off the light, stepped over to _his_ bed, and flopped down heavily. Peter’s weighty landing caused Neal to bounce up in the air momentarily.

     The con man lifted his head sleepily and mumbled something under his breath.

     “What was that?” Peter demanded.

     Neal eventually levered himself up on one elbow. “I said, ‘The things that I have to endure in the service of the FBI just go above and beyond the call of duty.’” Then he flopped back down with a theatrical moan.

     “Ditto!” Peter snarked.

     As the frustrated agent yanked some of the covers over him, he threatened, “If you turn out to be a noisy sleeper, Caffrey, I’m going to hold a pillow over your face until either the snoring or your breathing stops, and right now I’m not too particular about whichever comes first!”

**********

     Little was said by either man during breakfast the next morning. Before going out the door, Peter dropped a stack of files into Neal’s lap that he had brought home the previous night.

     “Mortgage fraud to keep you from getting bored and playing ‘Dora the Explorer.’ I really hate to keep repeating myself, but STAY OUT OF MY STUFF!”

     Neal just gave the man an infuriating little grin.

   Hughes poked his head in Peter’s office later that morning. “How are things going at the old homestead?” he asked curiously.

     A strange expression came over Peter’s face. “He’s holding on by a thread—a whisper-thin, gossamer thread,” Peter replied eerily.

     Hughes simply frowned and didn’t dare ask anything more. He just really didn’t want to know. As he walked back to his office, he mused that he didn’t think that he had ever heard the word “gossamer” used in the White Collar office before now. Most likely, he theorized, Peter had gotten it from one his crossword puzzles and it was stuck in his head.

**********

     Six PM came again, the bewitching hour when Peter would turn into a raving lunatic pushed to the brink of insanity. He felt like he was barely holding on by his fingernails. He had fortified himself with six Tums on the ride home, and took a deep, cleansing breath before opening his front door. A Yogi Berra quote immediately popped into his head. “It was like déjà vu all over again!”

     Neal was seated on the couch with the contents of Peter’s “Caffrey” box spread before him on the coffee table like a smorgasbord. Previously, that box had been lodged in the back of the hall closet.

     Before Peter could say a word, Neal jumped in. “Now don’t get your knickers in a twist, Peter. Just let me say that I think this is just so adorably sweet. You kept all of my birthday cards and a lot more mementoes of our chase. It shows that you really care about me, and that you cared even way back then. I’m truly touched.”

     Peter really wanted to reach out and “touch” the con man as well, and not in a gentle way! Instead he reined in the impulse, gave in to defeat, and sat down heavily beside Neal. This was his cross to bear, so he laid his head back and closed his eyes. Like a mantra, he kept silently repeating, _“Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.”_

     Neal, of course, ruined Peter’s concentration. “If you would like, I can scrapbook the whole collection for you,” he offered magnanimously.

     “No, thank you,” Peter answered between his clenched jaw. When he could again speak normally, he whispered, “I thought that I left cold cases for you to work on today.”

     “Yeah, well they’re all done except for the Mortensen loan scandal, and that’s like String Theory. Nobody can prove it, not even Sheldon Cooper from the ‘The Big Bang Theory.’”

     After Peter’s “Caffrey” box was packed up and again stashed away in the closet, the two men ate a quiet dinner. Neal tried to get Peter to have a glass of the remaining burgundy wine left over from making the entrée. Peter declined and opted for three bottles of beer. He did, however, remember to compliment the chef and Neal beamed.

     When it was time to turn in, Peter blocked Neal’s advance toward the stairs. He had retrieved his Louisville Slugger from the coat closet and handed the baseball bat to his CI.

     “No more pajama parties for the two of us. I am going to sleep _alone_ in _my_ bed, and you are going to be down here on the couch. If somebody breaks in and tries to do you bodily harm, have at it, Buddy. ‘ _God helps those who help themselves_.’ Didn’t the nuns ever tell you that?”

     He was rewarded with a blank stare. Finally, Neal seemed to snap out of it. “But Peter …..” he started to object.

     “Neal,” Peter held up his hands for silence. “You are supposed to testify tomorrow morning, so you only have to survive for one more night. We’ll just have to hope for the best. We have already planned for the worst,” he said as he pointed to the bat and ended the protest.

     “Do you really want the possibility of my demise hanging over your head, Peter? I don’t know how you’ll be able to sleep,” the young man sulked.

     “Like a baby, Neal, like a baby!”

**********

     Neal did indeed survive intact, and was his cheerful self the next morning. He looked very dapper dressed in a pinstriped suit with his fedora cocked at a jaunty angle as they set off towards the city for the beginning of the trial. A very pissed off Ruiz was waiting on the courthouse steps.

     “Cute, Burke, really cute. Just remember what goes around, comes around.”

     “Bring it on, Buddy. If you really annoy me, I’ll have one of my agents spill cappuccino on you while they saunter after a bad guy hiding in a museum closet.”

     “But Peter,” Neal chimed in, “how will they know precisely who the bad guy is?”

     “Oh, look! Here’s Laurel and Hardy,” Ruiz snarled through gritted teeth.

     He never got to complete the insult. Neal and Peter had already pushed past him without a backwards glance. Neal finished his testimony by early afternoon, and it was a very, very relieved Peter who again attached his anklet and drove him home to June’s mansion.

     “Well, Neal, the only thing that I can say is that living with you has been an experience, and that is putting it mildly.”

     “Aw, Peter, you know you’ll miss me.”

     “Yeah, I probably will,” the agent agreed, “but my aim is getting better.”

     Neal’s laugh was musical, and he waved as he mounted the steps to the front door. When he reached his loft, he found Mozzie seated at the table, wine glass in hand.

     “So how was Chez Burke?” the little bald man inquired.

     “Everything that I could hope for,” Neal reassured him. “I was able to make myself as annoying and obnoxious as possible. Peter was just a capillary away from having an aneurysm burst.”

     “So, is it safe to assume that we won’t be having any surprise visits from your handler in the near future?”

     The con man smiled. “I think Peter has had his share of social time with me for quite awhile, and will not be apt to drop in unexpectedly, beer in hand, to shoot the breeze.”

     “I hope that you’re right,” Mozzie began earnestly. “Even though your dressing area is quite spacious, it’s really getting old hiding out in there for hours on end. I have already finished re-reading ‘War and Peace,’ and I now have Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’ pigeonholed in a drawer between your boxers and your briefs. So, tell me again. Are you really sure?”

     “Like _totally_ sure, just _totally_ ,” Neal did his perfect Valley Girl rendition.

     “Excellent!” chirped Mozzie as he began pulling out all sorts of esoteric equipment and arraying it on Neal’s table. “Now we can get on with our little project without interference by the Federal Bureau of Interruptus.”

    

    

 

    

    

 


End file.
